


An Argument in Favor of Sobriety

by defying3reason



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Anal Sex, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defying3reason/pseuds/defying3reason
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire gets everything he ever wanted, and thanks to certain excesses he can't remember what happened. Update: Enjolras' perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My conception of Enjolras is a healthy mixture of Hugo, Michael Maguire's beautiful voice, and Aaron Tveit's beautiful EVERYTHING. My conception of Grantaire is mostly George Blagden, but again, filled in with Hugo and Anthony Crivello. I don't quote from the text or anything, but my current copy of Les Miserables was translated by Julie Rose and published by Random House in 2008, and as this is the translation I've read most recently, it has been the strongest influence on my characterization.

There were some definite downsides to being a drunkard. For one, your friends never took you as seriously as you might have liked, even when you were being perfectly sincere, and even when you were mostly sober. That was only a minor irritation though. Grantaire knew he was a bit of a caricature to the Friends of the ABC and he played his role in comfort.

The physical effects, on the other hand…Grantaire wasn’t as fond of those. More often than not he began his mornings later than most young men his age, having experienced a restless sleep, with his head aching and feeling weak as a kitten.

Our story finds him on one such morning.

Grantaire woke slowly, with his mouth hanging open and his lips chapped from the noisy exhalations of the previous night. His curly dark hair was a tangled nest, much of it in his eyes. His throat was raw, and dry, and craving a drink, and the encroaching light of day was making a most unwelcome entry into…

Someone’s room. Hm. He was pretty sure he’d never seen this particular one before. He’d never managed to coax his way home with someone so apparently well read (there were more books in the small room than furniture to accommodate them), which was an odd detail for him to fix on when all he wanted to see was a pitcher of water (or a bottle of something less innocent).

Grantaire sat up on his elbows and noticed that he was nude under the bedding. He had little memory of the previous night. Well, he remembered heckling Marius a little, and heckling Enjolras a lot, but after a certain point the details swirled together into a fog of drink. At any rate, an innocent night with his friends at the Café Musain rarely ended in successful romantic conquest.

Curious about whom he had fooled into taking him to bed, Grantaire forced his eyes open, despite the cursed light, and turned to look at his bed partner.

The other young man was facing away from Grantaire, towards the wall. He was a bit surprised to identify his slumbering partner as male, but only a bit. Grantaire had a bit more luck with men, but he rarely appealed to them when he was too drunk to use proper discretion. And he was almost sure he’d never bedded a man this attractive before; though he couldn’t see the man’s face, he could tell from the naked back facing him, the strong shoulders, the abundant golden hair, the slender neck, and the smooth, creamy skin, that this man was something special.

It was little wonder Grantaire had been drawn to him though. With those abundant golden locks, he must have looked something like Enjolras…

The sleeper shifted, and Grantaire let out a startled gasp that, thankfully, didn’t wake the other man.

It _was_ Enjolras. Though how different he looked in repose! Despite having spent many an idle hour mentally cataloguing the breathtakingly beautiful features of his friend’s face, those same said features looked remarkably different in sleep than while giving a fiery oration. Asleep, Enjolras was still beautiful, but more in the likeness of a marble statue than his usual luminous godhood.

Enjolras. What was Enjolras doing in bed with a scoundrel like him? Not that Grantaire hadn’t longed for this moment, quite the opposite. He’d just never expected to actually experience this. Enjolras. Beautiful, idealistic, passionate, determined Enjolras.

Ignoring his aching head and traitorous body, Grantaire leaned up a little more in bed and took advantage of this rare opportunity to study human perfection unclothed. He’d only been able to guess how exquisite Enjolras’ body might look underneath his fashionably cut suits in the past, but with a thin sheet slipping down his waist, it was easy to confirm his previously cherished beliefs. A sculptor of the highest ability would be hard pressed to replicate such a figure in mere stone. The most carefully cast bronze could only hope for pale imitation. He was breathtaking, and accordingly he stole Grantaire’s breath.

Grantaire cursed the particular bottle that had brought him past the point of coherence the night before. Try as he might (and battling with his tired head for the faintest of recollections was a painful ordeal) he couldn’t remember much more than hurried, disjointed moments and fragments of encounters.

He’d kissed Enjolras. Oh, and Enjolras had kissed him! But which came first? Who initiated contact? Grantaire kissing Enjolras without being pushed away seemed just as unlikely as Enjolras initiating the romantic proceedings, and yet, one of those events must have happened to lead to this very morning.

That led to other conjectures. Grantaire did a quick catalogue of the particular aches he was feeling and tried to assess whether they were all related to his drinking excess, or whether some of them might have originated from a passionate bout of love making. His ass wasn’t bothering him anymore than usual, so if they had engaged in the longed for and most intimate of embraces Enjolras must be the one with an aching backside…

And Grantaire couldn’t remember it. Well. Clearly he was going to have to give up drinking.

Or, he’d try. Possibly.

His head was throbbing. Trying to force coherence from his fragmented recollections wasn’t working, and beyond that, it was unpleasant. The night would undoubtedly come back to him in good time. It was no use chasing down memories that were remaining stubbornly hazy.

Grantaire lay back against the mattress, eyes fixed on the ceiling, feeling a sense of wonder.

He’d been in love with Enjolras almost from the first moment of catching sight of the man. And Enjolras had remained stubbornly elusive, reserving his passions exclusively for his ideals. The Friends of the ABC mused about him in hushed voices sometimes; after all, the presence of a healthy young male endowed with incredible good looks who’d never so much as flirted with a young lady was a fascinating spectacle. They all reckoned Enjolras was celibate, and that much of his fire and energy was related to that disastrously unappealing lifestyle choice.

The more improbable courting his interest had seemed, the more Grantaire had been driven to do just that. It wasn’t just a matter of looks, though looks had been what initially drew Grantaire Enjolras’ way. Grantaire respected the young idealist. Enjolras had a sense of purpose and a way of sharing it that made even the drunken cynic, for short moments at a time, believe…

To put it simply, there was something magical about Enjolras.

Aware that the majority of men didn’t seem to share his inclinations (in that, excepting beauty of some quality, Grantaire didn’t have any preferences at all), at first Grantaire had been subtle about his feelings. He engaged Enjolras in conversation and did his best to catch his attention through flattery, irritation, provocation, or a mixture of the three. When they were alone he was less guarded in his attentions, but typically indirect, so as to keep what little dignity he possessed intact should Enjolras prove to be romantically traditional, or unromantic entirely, as was supposed. And, when he was sure no one would see, he found small excuses to touch the object of his intense fascination. Whether it was an innocent brush of fingers while passing Enjolras a glass or a book, or a positively indecent squeeze while being not quite as intoxicated as everyone supposed, Grantaire seized on any excuse he could find for physical contact with his unrequited love.

How perfectly fitting that he couldn’t remember their night of passion, given how he’d abused his position of friend and confidante for caresses that never should have been his.

What had he said, what had he done to change Enjolras’ mind about him?

He’d once suggested, while again using drink as a potential excuse, should his compliment have unintended consequences, that though Enjolras cut a fine figure in a recently acquired waistcoat, that his own figure would be Enjolras’ equal if they were both observed unclad. He’d followed this up by asking Enjolras if he’d like the opportunity to confirm or deny this. Enjolras had actually struck him, and did so while believing Grantaire to be too drunk to be entirely responsible for his lewd behavior. As Grantaire had still been wincing from the blow a week after the fact, he’d opted to be less forward in future. He’d yet to hit on the proper strategy for wooing his love.

What in the blazes had he said? No doubt he’d need to say it again, daily if not hourly, to keep whatever regard he’d engendered in the brilliant but coldly aloof young man.

Grantaire was interrupted in his torturous and ultimately futile musings by his companion stirring, and making some soft little breathy noises as he woke. As odd as it had been to watch him sleep, it was odder still to see him wake. Blond lashes still resting delicately on soft, pale cheeks, Enjolras stretched a bit, and the sheet barely serving to preserve his modesty failed in the task entirely. Grantaire’s eyes greedily drunk in the sight of his friend’s impressive manhood, and he cursed his habits once more for rendering the memory of fondling that delectable flesh stubbornly obstructed.

Enjolras’ eyes finally opened, and before they’d clearly fixed on Grantaire’s troubled countenance his perfect pink lips were quirked in the barest and most uncharacteristic of chaste smiles.

If Enjolras looked at him like that every morning maybe Grantaire really would find the strength to quit drinking.

However, Enjolras’ smile was short-lived, as he took note of his companion’s unease. “Grantaire?” his voice was thick from sleep and, Grantaire noted with a pang of regret, raw from strain. Enjolras could deliver moving orations to the crowded streets of Paris and even be heard ringing out over the sometimes rowdy and bawdy catcalls of the Musain. Grantaire had never heard his throat sound the least bit strained.

What had they _done_ last night?

“Grantaire, what’s troubling you?” Enjolras asked. He leaned up on his elbows, so that they were more or less eye level. It was fortunate for Grantaire that Enjolras’ eyes were just as lovely as the rest of him, otherwise he’d have had a job keeping his gaze fixed on them. As it was, it was an uncomfortable task and he would much rather have liked to look at the entrancing figure stretched out beside him.

“You don’t…regret last night, do you?” Enjolras continued.

“Not at all,” Grantaire blurted out, though truth be told he regretted aspects of it incredibly, chief aspect being his inability to vividly recall what must have been the best night of his life. “I just, well, that is…”

Enjolras leaned close and clasped one of Grantaire’s hands in his own strong, deceptively slender one. His gaze was so focused, so intent. Grantaire’s incoherence increased tenfold with that gaze fixed on him.

“Grantaire, you haven’t changed your mind, have you? You still meant what you said to me last night?”

In blind panic, Grantaire struggled to the utmost for even a hint of what he might have said, but no recollection came.

Regardless, there was really only one answer to give.

“Of course not.”

Appeased, Enjolras smiled that rare, heavenly smile once more, leaned up for a chaste kiss, and then dropped his curly blond head on Grantaire’s chest. He was a warm, secure weight, and Grantaire could only stare at him in wonder as he reverently stroked the luxurious golden locks.

Whatever he’d said, he must have meant it at the time. Besides, he couldn’t argue with the results.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The previous night, from Enjolras' perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was initially planning this as a one-shot, but then the story expanded on me. I'm in the early stages of planning one last chapter (not sure if I want to give them a happy ending or something more in line with the canon material). I think Enjolras came out a little OOC here, but hopefully entertainingly so.
> 
> Also, here be smut. Enjoy, and please let me know what you think!

_**The Previous Night…** _

Enjolras had staked out a corner at the Musain early into the night and, from the looks of his companions, would likely not be leaving it. The quality of conversation in the room was not to his liking. He didn't begrudge his friends what he considered their frivolous pursuits, but he certainly had no interest in discussing Bossuet's latest misadventure with a streetwalker who turned out to be male (because only Bossuet could make a habit of an event that would be an isolated accident for any other man).

Grantaire seemed to be of at least half a mind with Enjolras on this one point, though he was in no place to know it as Enjolras was keeping silent. The cynic loudly proclaimed his opinion that their little eagle had a side of himself that he needed to explore. He slung an arm around Bossuet's shoulders and offered him assistance in his period of self-study.

"Why Grantaire, is there something _you_ haven't been telling us?" Courfeyrac asked with a grin.

For once, Grantaire didn't rise to the challenge. He only smiled and took another swig from his bottle. The conversation returned to Bossuet's mishap, as each of the Friends took their turn giving a witty rejoinder over the situation, and much abuse was heaped on Bossuet's masculinity, sexual prowess, and basic powers of observation.

Enjolras eyed Grantaire with some curiosity. He knew Grantaire liked them all to think he was something of a womanizer (though truth be told, while he seemed to be an ardent admirer of the fair sex, only the least fair of the sex were willing to put up with him). His comment to Legle seemed…incongruous with that goal.

'He'd probably have better luck if he went after men,' Enjolras thought distantly, barely noticing where his stray thoughts were taking him. Typically Grantaire was derided as ugly, unnaturally ugly even, by the women he attempted to woo, but the fickle things sold him short. Yes, some of his teeth were bad, but the ones you saw most often were almost white and fairly straight (and there was something endearing about the crooked ones on the bottom). His complexion was ruddy from drinking, his skin was often bad and his hair neglected, but his figure was good. If he put the least bit of care in the way he presented himself he'd be almost as attractive as Marius (though Marius' charms had as much to do with his innocent naiveté as with looks). Girls, in Enjolras' opinion, never saw past countenance. They failed to take character into proper consideration before dismissing or accepting a man. The only ugliness in Grantaire was his lack of conviction.

Grantaire winked at Enjolras and he realized two things. First, that he'd been comparing his friends to each other to ascertain who among them was the most attractive, which was an absolute waste of time and mental energy. Second, that he'd been gazing vapidly at Grantaire as he did so.

And, much to Enjolras' displeasure, Grantaire took this lapse in attention as an invitation to join him in his corner. Enjolras steeled himself for a face full of wine breath, careful not to breathe through his nose until Grantaire caught his balance on his new stool and accordingly ceased to exhale in Enjolras' face.

"'Lo Enjolras. Thinking deep thoughts, I see…"

"Not particularly," Enjolras said dismissively. "I fear, though there is much activity in the Musain tonight, that little of it could accurately be described as having any kind of depth."

"Well, let the boys take a night off every now and then. Can't all be doom and gloom and revolution."

"If you expect me to take issue with that statement you will be disappointed. I know better than to waste time debating a contrary lush like yourself. You only deride, and I find tearing holes in arguments worse than useless if you can offer no new positions to replace what you have destroyed."

"Why Enjolras, you know me better than I know myself." He took a lengthy draught from his bottle, and then proceeded to pester Enjolras for the next quarter hour.

Enjolras kept his responses as monosyllabic as possible, but to no avail. The drunkard had fixed on him as an object of attention, and their other friends were too distracted to offer him assistance. Despite Enjolras' obvious irritation with him, Grantaire went on to expound at length on everything and nothing, interspersing disparaging comments about Enjolras' passions with self-deprecating effusions on his own faults. Grantaire had the peculiar ability of being able to honestly and cuttingly lay out those faults with such false-exuberance and cheer that one could easily miss the awful significance of what he was really saying (as Enjolras was the only person who expounded Grantaire's faults better than the drunk himself, he always caught the full weight of the man's words).

After the quarter of an hour had passed without Grantaire showing any signs of losing steam, Enjolras considered turning in early. None of his friends seemed in the mood for work, and Grantaire was making more of a pest of himself than usual. However, with the way the lout was fixated on him, if Enjolras did try to leave there was a good chance Grantaire would simply follow him home. His best bet was to wait for something else to draw Grantaire's attention, and then slip out as quietly as possible.

The opportunity presented itself when Courfeyrac and Marius began a conversation about romance. The blackened, shriveled heart of a cynic is incapable of resisting such a pure and worthy target. Grantaire almost fell off his seat in his eagerness to join Courfeyrac and Marius, his haste to enlighten them as to what fools they both were being very great.

As Enjolras made to leave, he thought he heard some arguments from Grantaire that were…unexpected, to say the least. He sounded like he himself had been scorned in love, but how could that be? Grantaire had never opened his heart to another soul. He sneered on intimacy as he did all passions. Perhaps he'd meant to relate a scuffle with 'one of his dozens of mistresses' and had dressed up his language in drink-related overexertion.

That sounded like something Grantaire would do. Exaggeration combined with the muddled mind of alcohol's fog was much more likely than a broken heart. After all, one would have to _have_ a heart for it to be broken.

Enjolras' eavesdropping cost him terribly. His confusion slowed his step, and Grantaire noticed him before he made good his escape. "Wait a minute, you! Where are you going so early?"

"To bed," Enjolras snapped. Taking note of the way Grantaire wove on his feet, he couldn't help further comment. "I suggest you do the same."

"I heartily accept the invitation. My bed or yours?"

The damn drunk really was in a fine state! Though this was far from the first inappropriate joke Grantaire had thrown Enjolras' way, he usually had the decency to keep his voice down when he said them, or he waited until they were in private (on one particularly noteworthy occasion, Grantaire had outdone himself in indecency while pretending to admire Enjolras' new waistcoat; he'd struck Grantaire and subsequently burned the waistcoat, fearing further attentions the next time Grantaire had one drink too many). At any rate, Grantaire had yet to make one of those ill-thought out jests at Enjolras when the others could hear.

Their friends erupted in mirth, making catcalls and loud whistles. Mortified, Enjolras fled the café.

The night breeze cooled his flushed skin some, but his passions would not abate. He was tempted to hit Grantaire again, as obviously the useless oaf hadn't learned his lesson the first time. Enjolras wasn't subtle; he'd been as straightforward as possible with Grantaire, as with everyone else who'd made comments of that kind to him. He was not some soft-minded toy for caresses, flirtations, and silly love-making. He was no simpering fool.

Which was probably why Grantaire had singled him out for constant goading. A pessimist like Grantaire would never select a goal that was attainable. Where would the dissatisfaction with all come from if he were to make an achievement, even an achievement as utterly insignificant as successful seduction?

'I ought to flirt back with him, just once,' Enjolras thought angrily. 'It would take all his enjoyment from this insipid game, and then he'd leave me alone.'

"Hey, _Enjolras_!"

Enjolras stopped in his tracks, jaw set in a harsh line and eyes tightly shut in a pained grimace. He was an athletic young man and Grantaire was brilliantly drunk. He could easily outrun the pest. However, heavy drinking did nothing to lower the volume of one's voice; in fact, it had the opposite effect. Enjolras would not be able to outrun those horrid shouts, and who knew what the impertinent shit would howl after him for all Paris to hear?

So he waited for Grantaire to stumble over to him, but he did not turn to meet him. Grantaire shuffled up to Enjolras, face flushed with the exertion, and still grasping a bottle in his unsteady hand. He offered a weak smile. "Don't hit me this time."

"I ought to," Enjolras nearly growled. "Have you no sense?"

"I have some, though not as much as I'm sure I ought. I noticed that I may have crossed a line…again. I came to apologize before you could get too mad. Bossuet thought it best, but then, I think he was glad to have the general attention diverted from his apparent fondness of men in dresses. So you see, in a way my comments were not entirely thoughtless. They were quite opportune for poor Legle, who has a much harder time of it than you. Really, you should be commending me for being such a good friend."

"And what, exactly, does Bossuet have a harder time of than myself?" Enjolras snapped. He started walking at a robust pace, noticing, but not caring that Grantaire was exerting himself terribly to keep up. He was hoping to discourage conversation.

"Everything, as you well know. No one has worse luck than Bossuet. But in particular I was talking about respect. Not that he cares, mind, he's a jolly enough fellow. You though, everyone respects you, as they should. Fool that I am, you know there's nothing I could say to actually lower anyone's esteem of you…right?"

Enjolras slowed his pace a bit. "I wasn't going to hit you this time." Though he had been tempted.

"Last time hurt. I was rubbing my eye for a week."

"Many men would learn from such an experience and alter their behavior accordingly."

"Yes, well sense has a way of deserting me when I am too near you."

Enjolras turned sharply so that he was facing Grantaire, who had been stumbling a few paces behind him and almost walked into him. "Will you kindly stop saying things like that?"

"Like what?" Grantaire asked, looking exaggeratedly puzzled.

"Things you do not mean!" Enjolras exploded.

Grantaire's confusion deepened. "What don't I mean? I am being perfectly frank, Enjolras." He considered for a slow second before slurring out further remarks. "I am terribly sorry to have upset you this night. I was even sorrier the last time when you struck me, which hurt quite a lot, and I do not think that I have lowered anyone's opinion of you. I'd say I've lowered everyone's opinion of myself, but I know I've never been thought highly of to begin with. What have I said wrong this time?"

Enjolras took a quick look along the quiet street, and then decided to return Grantaire's guarded seeming-frankness with straightforward bluntness of his own.

"Grantaire, what is my sex?"

"Wh-what?" The question appeared to be more than the intoxicated man could handle.

"Your behavior leads me to believe that you are confused as to my sex. Do you think I am male or female?"

"M-male," Grantaire slurred.

Enjolras nodded and began walking again. "Then why do you irritate me with your flirtations? I do not appreciate being categorized with your grisettes and street girls. I have never desired your attentions. A greater fool than you would have noticed by now that I resent them."

Grantaire was silent. He kept shuffling along a few paces behind Enjolras, though he seemed to have no answer for a rejection so thorough that it left no room for argument. Enjolras expected him to break away at any moment to lose himself in another bottle, but still he remained.

They reached the entrance to Enjolras' building. He was going to head up to his rooms without bidding Grantaire any kind of farewell, but Grantaire touched his arm and he reluctantly bestowed his attention on the swaying wreck of a man.

"In all honesty Enjolras, I simply do not know what else to do. I know you are right to hate me. After all, I hate myself, so how could you…but it doesn't make it any easier to let alone the one source of my happiness. Drink dulls everything but you make it go away. If you truly wish it though, I'll keep it all to myself henceforth. Just don't turn me away. I don't think I'll last long if you do."

Enjolras stared at Grantaire in some surprise. Though usually quite eloquent, words failed him. All he managed was an inarticulate mumble. "That was somewhat overstated."

"How?" Grantaire croaked, hope showing nakedly in his features.

'He truly believes it, that I hate him,' Enjolras realized. "Grantaire, you make it a point to vex me and I am accordingly vexed by you, _frequently_. But I do not hate you. You overstate the situation incredibly."

"How warm you are tonight!" Grantaire gasped, all wonder. And loud wonder, at that.

Enjolras grasped Grantaire's arm and yanked him inside. "Apparently we have much to discuss, and I'd rather do it without an audience," he grumbled.

Grantaire obediently followed after him, though he did have some difficulty with the stairs. Once they were securely locked away in Enjolras' private rooms he lost his war with downward momentum, and fell into a disheveled heap on the floor. Enjolras seized the opportunity to pry the bottle of poison from his hands and place it out of reach.

He knelt in front of Grantaire, tilted his face up by the chin, and looked him in the eye. "I'd prefer to have this conversation with you sober, but I fear I will never get the chance. We have had a miscommunication of some sort, and I would like to clear it up. I have already told you that I do not hate you. Exactly what is it that you feel towards me?"

Grantaire's eyes were unfocused, but even when clarity briefly overtook them they were not resting on Enjolras' steely blue gaze. They kept falling to his lips. Enjolras dropped Grantaire's chin and gave a defeated sigh. He should have known better than to think he could wrest understanding from a man who'd pickled his brains beyond comprehension.

Free of Enjolras' unwavering, intimidating, and single-minded focus, Grantaire found himself able to speak in the general direction of his companion's feet.

"I feel things for you that I cannot put to words, for it is not in my nature to harbor emotions as pure as this. I wound, I cut down, I tear holes, as you observed. I do not know how to explain what I barely understand myself. I just know that you make me feel better, somehow. Even when you deride me, I rejoice in catching your notice. You make me feel I stand half a chance of facing life without the crutch of my bottles. You make me want to be a better sort of man, the sort of man I don't even believe to be real. You enchant me, Enjolras. At times I feel almost good enough to be your friend. Heaven knows I wish to be more, but I take the scraps I can."

Enjolras was stunned into silence. It had never once occurred to him that all Grantaire's brazenness, all his drunken propositions, made in the guise of lightheartedness, accompanied by a smirk and excused with drunkenness, could have possibly been motivated by sincerity of feeling. Sincerity was not in Grantaire's nature, only derision.

And yet, if Enjolras was to be perfectly honest with himself, he did see glimmers of a better sort of man in Grantaire. The thought that he could kindle those small embers into something substantial, to be an influence on Grantaire, to turn the weak, cynical disposition into one firm in belief, one that suited his talents…

Enjolras had little experience with intoxication, but he confessed himself giddy at the thought. Seeing Grantaire free of the consuming pain that drove him to dull himself so, to see him become the man he ought to be, there was little Enjolras would be unwilling to do to see that a reality.

Perhaps he'd been too hard on his friend.

Enjolras clasped one of Grantaire's trembling hands in his. "What do you need of me?" Grantaire eyed him in confusion, and, it seemed, a little bit of fear. Enjolras waited for him to answer, but he looked on in dull incomprehension. "Grantaire, tell me. Please. I have been unwitting in the pain I have caused you. I did not understand your feelings. I should like to help you. Now what do you need of me?"

"There are too many wrong answers available. I should like to remain silent, if it is all the same, as it will keep you from dismissing me."

Enjolras felt himself grow irritated once more, but he kept his emotions in check. "I will not strike you again, whatever you might say to me. I will not dismiss you. Now for heaven's sake, speak! You've just said that drink is your crutch. How can I get you to lean on me instead of that poison? If I can keep you from drinking yourself to death, I should like the opportunity to be useful."

"I do not think you would," Grantaire said, with sorrow written in the dejected slump of his movements. "I am very weak, Enjolras, and very broken. You would have to give me much support and it is not fair of me to ask it when I could give you so little in return."

"I think I am strong enough for the both of us, now what do you require of me?" Enjolras asked, harshness creeping into his tone though he did not mean for it.

Again, Grantaire lowered his gaze, speaking this time to the floorboards. "I would need you to love me as I love you. That would be something…something worth the pain of sobriety. I would not have my mistress alcohol rob me of a single moment of such bliss. To dampen the smallest bit of that heaven with intoxication would be a blasphemy even my irreverent soul could not commit. To be loved by you, dear Enjolras…I should have the strength to do anything. But I dare say that it is impossible, which is why I have never broached the subject."

"You are a pessimist through and through," Enjolras said, before taking Grantaire in his arms and joining their lips in a tenderness of expression that neither young man ever expected to receive.

For a long while they remained that way; Grantaire disheveled, limp, and trembling in Enjolras' arms, but returning his kisses with zeal. Every time their lips parted for the intrusion of unobstructed breaths, he let out quiet sobs of disbelief and gasps of rapture. Enjolras, who had never kissed anyone on the mouth, was surprised to be enjoying the experience as thoroughly as he was. He imagined himself growing intoxicated from the wine left on Grantaire's lips and tongue, because the longer he sucked at them, the more lightheaded he became.

"F-forgive me…Enjolras, forgive me," Grantaire gasped, after several minutes of this. He tried to shrug away, but Enjolras kept his arms fast around him, refusing to let him crawl back to the familiarity of his misery and kill the hope that was blooming for him in Enjolras' breast. "Forgive me, my beautiful Antinous, but if we continue in this vein I will do something desperately disrespectful. My passions are already overtaking me, and I am drunk, and you are so lovely. And chaste. You are supposed to be chaste, not a temptress!"

"… _tempter_."

"Tempter, as I said. Well? Explain yourself."

Enjolras quirked his lips (which, he realized with some astonishment, must be the same lovely shade of red and swollen quite as much as Grantaire's). "My chastity is circumstantial. Simply put, I have never been sufficiently tempted to expend any effort that could have been put towards more productive pursuits. Before this night, I mean."

"Enjolras, I am very drunk," Grantaire warned him. Enjolras' hands were beginning to stray, stroking a bold path down Grantaire's sides, over his chest, and settling at his waistband. It seemed the brazen comment that had earned him a blow under less amiable circumstances hadn't been exaggeration; he certainly felt to have a nice body. "I cannot be held responsible for my actions," Grantaire tried again, letting out a small gasp when Enjolras began sucking at a spot on his neck. "I am not an honorable man. I will ravish you if you do not take heed."

Enjolras thought back on the hushed conversations he'd overheard from time to time when unexpectedly entering the Musain. He knew his friends thought his celibacy the source of his zeal, and that 'a long night with the right mistress' would take some of the edge off of his intensity. He knew the general consensus was that a night of base passion would be good for him.

If those base passions could be turned towards the improvement of a soul that desperately needed the hope to cling to, well that might be two birds with one stone.

"I am honorable, sober, and completely in my right mind," Enjolras whispered, his mouth very close to Grantaire's ear. "And I say, ravish me if you must."

New as he was to the strange business of lovemaking, Enjolras feared for a moment that he'd misspoken. Grantaire went still, tensing almost violently at Enjolras' words. Then the young man groaned and threw himself at Enjolras with utter abandon.

Enjolras found himself flat against the floor with Grantaire on top of him, straddling him and grinding their groins together. The sensations were indescribable. And there was such rightness in the strong hands possessively roaming over his body; those firm hands matched the possessive fire in Grantaire's eyes.

His eyes, oh how beautiful were the man's eyes! Misery and excessive drinking had robbed him of what would have been a pleasing countenance, but not even habits as foul as Grantaire's could render his eyes any less lovely. And to see them ablaze with passion! Enjolras had thought he'd never see the day.

A pity Grantaire's passions erupted for something as petty as love for Enjolras. But perhaps that imperfect, but achingly human love could be molded to something grander, something constructive, something revolutionary…

Enjolras wasn't sure if it was Grantaire's delicious rutting against him while kissing him breathless, or the mental image of the man standing beside him at the barricades, sober, quick-witted, and ready to lead the people into a blaze of glory at Enjolras' side that fired his passions more. Either way, his trousers were becoming decidedly uncomfortable.

"Gr-Grantaire…" Enjolras' voice broke in a low moan. He did not recognize himself in the sound of it. "Please…I can't, I can't breathe…I…"

"Sorry. I'm sorry." Grantaire pulled away from Enjolras wearing an agonized expression, as though he'd had some terrible imagining confirmed. Tired of explaining himself at this point, when he was sure he'd made himself clear with the command to be ravished, Enjolras merely rose to his feet and began undressing.

Not caring to see if Grantaire followed, Enjolras continued discarding his clothing as he walked towards his bed. By the time he touched the sheets he was fully nude, and fully erect. He leaned back on his elbows, facing Grantaire, and slowly spread his legs apart. Grantaire watched him greedily, apparently unconscious of the fact that his mouth was hanging open and that his eyes were quite wide. Had the situation been different, his expression would have been comical.

For the first time in ages, Enjolras found comfort in the knowledge that he was good looking. He hadn't cared much about his looks one way or the other for quite some time, but he felt that in the light of his complete inexperience being handsome evened things between him and his lover somewhat.

"Grantaire?" Enjolras prompted, when his partner continued to mutely stare at him. "I believe you once offered me the chance to compare our figures unclad. Though I rather rudely declined at the time, I've had a change of heart. I'd greatly enjoy the chance to examine you nude, if you don't mind." He punctuated this statement by giving his erect penis a firm, slow rub.

Grantaire was on his feet before his balance consented, and he went toppling back to the ground first thing. He further slowed his progress to the bed by attempting to remove his clothing as he walked, and as both tasks required more attention than he could give in a state of inebriation and heightened lust, his progress in both was utterly pathetic. Enjolras continued stroking himself and shook his head. "You'll have to give up drinking first thing, Grantaire. I'll only excuse gracelessness and delay this one time. Do you understand me?"

"Henceforth I shall only be drunk on my love for you," Grantaire promised.

Despite himself, Enjolras smiled. "That is acceptable."

Taking pity on his uncoordinated lover, Enjolras helped him shed what remained of his clothing and guided him down to the bed. He expected the ravishing to begin afresh, with more frenzied thrashing of their hips and bruising kisses, and panting and cursing, as when they'd first come together on the floorboards. Instead, Grantaire touched him with soft, lingering hands that wandered over Enjolras' skin in an intense sort of reverence. His kisses had turned tender once more, and though Enjolras yearned for the hungry ones they'd just traded, he was mindful of the fact that Grantaire had asked to be loved. He hadn't meant it just physically.

Enjolras was nothing if not master of his body. He'd gone this long without taking anyone to bed despite many opportunities, and he could delay gratification if it was needed. He gave Grantaire the opportunity to explore his body and he took the opportunity to explore Grantaire's in turn.

As Enjolras had mused earlier that very night in the café, Grantaire did indeed cut a very fine figure outside of his slovenly dress. Alcohol hadn't yet bloated his stomach, which was concave, glorious, and accented by the erotic jut of perfect hipbones that Enjolras enjoyed having under his fingers. His chest was nice too, as were his arms, with just the right amount of soft brown hairs, and all covered in creamy white skin that lacked the ruddiness that often ruined his complexion.

The women of Paris had no idea what they'd been rejecting. This man was sinfully handsome.

Enjolras found himself turned onto his back with much of Grantaire's weight resting against him. Grantaire's tender kisses moved first to Enjolras' jawline, then further south, nipping against his collarbone, trailing down his chest, mouthing a wet line down his stomach, and then stopping just before they reached the point on Enjolras' body that all his attention was turning to (to say nothing of his blood). He sat up on his elbows and stared indignantly at the messy raven colored heard poised above his crotch.

"Grantaire?" he choked out.

"Taking stock of the moment," Grantaire answered, whatever that meant. "I've dreamed of this so often. It doesn't seem real."

Enjolras thrust his hips up and knocked the tip of his erection against Grantaire's chin. "This is real, and I entreat you to act upon the moment."

Without further hesitation, Grantaire took Enjolras into his mouth, and what a skilled mouth he possessed! Enjolras lost all sense of coherence under the ministrations of what had henceforth been a biting tongue, but no longer. It was a friendly tongue indeed that licked along his shaft and invited him deeper and deeper into the warm, welcoming mouth. Grantaire had to hold Enjolras' hips against the bed to keep him from thrusting so that he could set the pace of his ministrations, and though Enjolras longed to move, and continued to attempt to do so, he was well aware that Grantaire knew what he was doing, and was bringing him much in the way of pleasure.

Enjolras spilled his seed into that eager mouth, letting out a startled and rasping noise as he did so that sounded thoroughly foreign to one normally in such perfect control of their body and its passions. His voice was rough after that, but there was much tenderness in his raspings. Grantaire swallowed every drop of semen as though it was precious, and when Enjolras' cock was rendered spent he dropped his head onto Enjolras' hip. Enjolras carded his fingers through Grantaire's damp hair, breathing deeply and slowly from his pleasure.

"That was…a different intensity than what I've experienced from self-pleasure."

"You've spilled your own seed?" Grantaire asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

Enjolras snorted derisively. "Up to tonight I've been chaste, not dead."

Grantaire trailed his palms up and down Enjolras' thighs. "I'd never given it much thought. The only hand I ever entertained on your cock was my own, though I never expected you to welcome my touch."

Enjolras crooked his knee, trapping Grantaire between his legs. "You are still unfulfilled. What would you have me do to pleasure you?" There was a lengthy pause. "Grantaire, are you trembling again?"

"My nerves could be steadier. I can't believe this is real."

"It very soon won't be if you don't quit saying that."

"My apologies. Am I to understand that if you're in the habit of self-pleasuring, you may perhaps have some oil or lotion on hand?"

Enjolras leaned up and reached for a nearby stand where, among the scraps of paper, a few old pens, and a volume of Rousseau, he found the small bottle he sought. He pressed it into Grantaire's shaking hand. Grantaire trapped their fingers together and kissed them before he allowed Enjolras to take his hand away.

Enjolras remained raised on his elbows to watch what his lover did next.

Grantaire coated the index and middle finger of his right hand in the oil and then gently massaged Enjolras' buttocks. He bent forward and placed open mouthed kisses along the soft flesh of Enjolras' inner thigh as his slicked fingers did their work, teasing ever closer between his cheeks. Enjolras gasped, surprised to find himself getting excited again so soon after such intense pleasure.

Maybe…maybe his friends weren't as foolish as he thought for seeking out these kinds of attentions so eagerly. Maybe he had been missing out on something.

He still resented the slight his principles had received in being said to originate from an underused sex drive though.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," Grantaire said, voice thick with concern and a fair bit of lust. "I can control my urges, if need be. This might be unpleasant at first." The wet fingers were travelling, lower, closer, and Enjolras unconsciously moved to welcome them into his body. Grantaire carefully inserted his index finger first, watching his lover intently for any sign of discomfort. Enjolras did make a small noise at the intrusion, but he didn't mean it as discouragement.

"Don't you dare withdraw that finger," Enjolras commanded in a ragged voice.

"It is enough that I am defiling you. I will not hurt you."

"And you are not. It is just…an odd sensation. Keep going. I have faith that it will be pleasant soon."

Grantaire returned to giving Enjolras attentions with his mouth, littering his pale, firm flesh with kisses and sucking at any spot that produced even the faintest of shivers. The first finger was soon joined by another, and Enjolras found himself enjoying the penetration. He expressed his approval by shallowly thrusting back against the gently undulating fingers, accenting his movements with groans and gasps. If that weren't enough indication of his pleasure, his cock was filling again.

Grantaire still looked unsure of himself, but he added a third finger anyway. He littered Enjolras' body with kisses while his fingers did their work. The last kiss he dropped on Enjolras' temple, then he brushed dampened golden hair out of Enjolras' eyes, removed his fingers, and replaced them with his oil-slicked cock.

Grantaire's manhood was quite a different size from his fingers. Initially, discomfort was more than adequate a word for the situation. But Grantaire whispered loving nonsense in his ear, and though the words were foolish, the sound of his voice was comforting and erotic at once. He didn't move until Enjolras was ready, and he stroked Enjolras' cock in time to his passionate thrusts. Enjolras thrashed wantonly against the mattress, moving by instinct, repeatedly welcoming the intrusion into his body and wishing he could take Grantaire deeper still. Let them join like this every night if need be. If this was all Grantaire needed to keep from drinking himself to death, Enjolras was more than happy to oblige.

Though insensible from the overwhelming physical effects of their coupling, Enjolras vaguely noticed when Grantaire's rhythm broke and his movements turned erratic and desperate. His exhalations were louder and uneven, and then he buried himself deep within Enjolras and shouted with his climax. Enjolras came for the second time that night with both their hands joined around his cock.

Grantaire sagged against him, and it was some moments before he moved again. Enjolras couldn't see his lover's face, as his own was buried in Grantaire's neck, but he hoped Grantaire looked even half as exultant as he felt.

Every night. They needed to do this every single night. If Grantaire got spectacularly drunk every night as a crutch, then surely to break that habit he would need to have spectacular orgasms on a nightly basis instead…

"That was better than regicide," Enjolras murmured.

"What was that?" Grantaire asked. He let out a low chuckle.

"I think you heard me." Enjolras shifted out from under Grantaire just enough so that he could wipe them both clean, then he molded himself to Grantaire once more and let out a contented sigh. "So…that's what I've been missing."

"I told you I was in demand," Grantaire said. "There is a reason."

"Well, you're off the market now, demand be damned." Enjolras kissed his partner sleepily. He could still taste some wine on Grantaire's tongue, but it was fainter now, having been overpowered by other, stronger influences, and would hopefully fade into memory in the coming weeks. It had to. After sharing what they just had, Enjolras would never forgive Grantaire if he continued in his self-destruction.

"Grantaire…"

"Mmph?" Grantaire responded sleepily.

Enjolras lazily brushed some tangled black curls out of his lover's face. His actions were slow and tender, but his gaze was as intense as ever. "Do not make me regret this night."

"Won't," Grantaire insisted. He slipped off to sleep after that, snoring lightly, one arm flung securely around Enjolras, who was more than content to nuzzle against his new lover. He had a feeling of foreboding that he couldn't quite dismiss, but the steady heartbeat against his ear was undeniably soothing. He soon joined Grantaire in restful sleep.


End file.
